


Sunrise, Sunset

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-22
Updated: 2004-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-26 23:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12069096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Based loosely â€“ ok, very loosely â€“ on the musical Rent.  Iâ€™m completely cannibalizing it(and mean no harm to anyone....).Brian is a rock musician who was on the verge of success when his lover committed suicide, leaving behind a note revealing his HIV+ status. Since then heâ€™s become a bit of a recluse.  Justin is a streetwise nineteen-year-old with a heroin problem who works as a go-go boy and lives above Brian. Guess what happens when they meet?





	Sunrise, Sunset

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

The timer goes off and I race to turn it off, wincing at the incessant chirping that has come to be the measure of my life. Already, I can feel a head ache forming behind my temples, different than a hangover. Heavier, like changing a tire under water, every movement thicker, slower, requiring more effort than it could possibly deserve. Popping open the childproof cap on the amber-colored prescription bottle, I close my eyes before placing the small, white tablets on the back of my tongue, then swallowing hastily before opening them again. I don’t need water anymore, but even after only a moment of darkness, I find myself blinking in the bright light of the glorified closet that passes for my apartment. Re-setting the timer, I swallow again, trying to remove the bitter taste of the bile that rises every time I complete this small ritual. It’s in this moment, the aftermath, that I can understand why he did it. He saw the future: the timers, the bottles from which I measure my life, the moment of darkness ever time I close my eyes and swallow.  
For a second after I have opened them I see him there, sitting on the kitchen table, lanky body slouching forwards, long legs dangling and swinging like a small child on a swing set and eyes shining with the same sense of wonder, of delight. A shock of red hair is standing up in a proud cowlick, refusing to conform, as does the slight stubble brushed lightly across his jowls and chin. In my vision he is smiling, laughing heartily even, the sound bubbling from deep within his chest, deeper than would be thought possible in someone so thin. Then I blink, and he is gone again, leaving only the mostly-tuned guitar I left when I went scrambling towards the alarm.  
I shuffle back towards it, stumbling over our only telephone; left half-hazardly sprawled across the floor. Cursing Michael for his carelessness, as if it wasn’t just yesterday that I committed a similar crime, I manage to stay on my feet long enough to reach the sturdy, if hideous, table, and the guitar. I find my hands wrapped around it, already losing themselves in someone else’s melody as my mind begins to wander. I close my eyes again, willing my vision of Felix to appear, painted across the undersides of my eyelids. For a moment I can almost see him, laughing, sitting on the table, before the picture shifts and I find myself once more seeing my last image of him, lying, naked in the bathtub, head thrown back, so like the first time I saw him. Then the lights were dimmed his eyes rolling in ecstasy as the most handsome men in the world gathered around him. I thought he was beautiful, knew that if only I could capture him in a song, the curve of his fingers and toes in hard-earned notes and the urgency of his moan in a lyric, I would have given the world something wonderful to remember me by.  
There is nothing beautiful in what I see now, in his head thrown back, eyes closed, but not even the whisper of a moan escaping his partly open lips. I watch dispassionately as blood makes it’s way towards the bathroom drain, breathless, my heart frozen between beats. I try to open my eyes, to shake myself out of this trance, but I am powerless. In the distance, I hear the sound of my fingers, still strumming the guitar, but I don’t know what they’re playing.  
There is a knock on the door, and Felix falls away, leaving behind the easy darkness of lowered eyelids. I open my eyes, staring at the door for a minute, then the knock comes again. Slowly, I put aside the guitar and stand up, limbs aching and head still pounding. Making my way through the clutter of papers and videos, half-written songs and empty pizza boxes, I reach the door, pulling it open to reveal whoever has seen fit to disturb me.  
For a moment, the man I see on the other side is Felix. He has the same light in his eyes, the same joy emanating from every inch of his young body. I tense, suck in my breath, then blink, my vision clearing to unveil a different man. A boy really: blond, pale, unblemished skin and piercing blue eyes. He is wearing a tee shirt, stretched tight across his skinny body, and equally alluring jeans. In his hands, he holds a single, unlit white candle.  
“Got a light?” he cocks one eyebrow, a slight smile waving across chapped lips. It takes me a minute to process.  
“Oh, uh, yeah, sure” I pull open the door, pushing aside trash and more papers as I do so, and retreat towards the kitchen to retrieve a box of matches. “Here you go. Want me to…?”  
“Sure” he smiles and full smile as I strike the match and the flame flickers into being. The room lights up, from his smile or the fire, I’m not sure which. I touch the blaze to the candle and the wick quickly catches. “Thanks” his eyes are warm, sparkling as he looks up at me through lowered lashes, then begins to turn away.  
“Wait” there is something familiar about this boy, something more than the shadow of Felix that flies across his features when he smiles… “I know you, you’re…you’re shivering.”  
“It’s nothing, they turned off my heat” he tells me, still smiling shyly. “And I’m just a little dizzy” there is a pause, an almost comfortable silence. He blinks, and I find myself captivated at those blue, blue eyes disappearing under thick lashes, then appearing once more. “What are you staring at?”  
“Nothing” it’s not true, but what else can I say? “You look familiar” I see him start to sway again, and fight the urge to reach out and steady him. “Can you make it?”  
“Yeah” he chuckles and I feel my head ache begin to lift “just haven’t eatin much today. At least to room stopped spinning. What?”  
“Nothing…you’re smile reminded me of…” I find myself trusting this easy innocence he seems to project, but alarm bells are ringing in my head. Few if any remain innocent here for long.  
“I always remind people of…who is he?” I take a deep, shuddering breath, then begin to tell him.  
“He died. His name was Felix”. It is all the information I can give right now. The candle goes out.  
“It’s out again” I reach for the matchbox, pulling one out and scratching it against the box. It bursts into flames, and our hand's touch as I once again hold it to the wick of his candle till it catches. I feel a tingling electricity radiate from where we make contact. “Sorry bout your friend” he offers. I should be wounded by his careless indifference, but I find myself giving him a small smile, the muscles sore from lack of use. My hand lingers on his, until a moment later…  
“Ow!” jumping back at his cry, I look down to see hot wax sliding down the side of the candle onto his pale skin. He pulls his hand away, shaking it, then sucks on his injured fingers for a moment too long.  
“Oh, the wax. I’m sorry, it’s…”  
“Dripping. I like it between my…” panic is rising in my chest. I can’t let this go where he’s taking it. Can’t have this happen again, not after Felix.  
“Fingers. Oh well, good night” I manage to shoo him out of doorway, slamming the door shut behind him and sagging against it, head ache returning and suddenly exhausted. There is another knock on the door. Sighing, push myself up onto my feet, brace myself then pull it open to find myself staring into luminous blue eyes. “It went out again?”  
“No, I think I dropped my stash” I cringe. He looks so young, so pure, but then, this is New York. I suppose I should know better than to call anyone that. Suddenly, I realize why he looked familiar, even without the smile.  
“Aha! I knew I’d seen you, when I used to go out…. Your candles out” but he no longer seems to care about the light. He’s to busy moving my papers and pizza boxes, shoveling them from side to side, searching desperately. I look away, unable to watch this dance I once knew all the steps to.  
“I know I had it when I got here. It was pure!” I sigh, resigned to being conscripted into this rite of junkie passage, the disappearing dope bag. “It has to be here somewhere on your floor”. He’s completely ignoring the table, and I find myself staring down at one of the more beautiful ass’s I’ve seen in, well, that I’ve seen.  
“My floor?” But of course he knows where my attention is.  
“They say that I have the best ass this side of the Hudson. Is it true?” he stands up and turns, laughing as I blush and stammer.  
“What!?!”  
“You were staring again” I feel my heart sinking into my stomach, sensing trouble  
“Oh. Sorry. I mean, yes. You do. Have a nice…. I mean, you look familiar”  
“Like your dead boyfriend” again, the grin.  
“Only when you smile, but I swear, I’ve seen you some place…” I haven't copped in monthes, and even then, I don't believe I spoke to him. It has to be more than that, I can feel the whisper of a memory trying to swim to the surface, but I can’t figure it out. There is something about him, I can’t shake the thought that we’ve met before.  
“Do you go to the Cat Scratch club? That’s where I work, I dance”. There. That’s what it is. I suddenly flash back to a month ago when Michael and the boys dragged me out, claiming I was in danger of becoming the first Manhattan hermit. A blond in handcuffs and leather flashes before my eyes as I try and remember.  
“Yes! They tied you up!”  
“It’s a living” he shrugs.  
“I didn’t recognize you without the handcuffs.” He beams back at me for a moment, then turns serious again.  
“Will you help me look?” I frown. I barely know him, but I don’t like this side.  
“Why don’t you forget that stuff? You look 16!” it’s true. He’s lithe and small enough to be younger, but he holds himself like someone who could walk around the block with a blindfold on.  
“I’m 19, but I’m old for my age” his nostrils flare, angrily, but it doesn’t last. He smiles again. “I guess I’m just born to be bad” he’s trying to lighten the mood, and I’d love to let him, but still, I’m uneasy.  
“I once was born to be bad” I tell him, in all seriousness. I may never have said it, but it’s what I used to believe. Dope will do that to you: make you feel authentic, genuine, real. Gives you that satisfying hint of legitimacy, enough to keep you going through the night. Until you find yourself huddled in a cold apartment, sweating and trembling and wondering why realness doesn’t stop you from feeling sick. “I used to shiver like that” I tell him.  
“I have no heat, I told you” he’s angry with me now, protesting, but I know the words before they leave his mouth, and I’m already talking over them.  
“I used to sweat”  
“I have a cold” Can’t he see that I know, that lying to me will only make me think worse of him? No, of course not. It’s hard to remember logic on junk isn’t like that of a clear mind. Or a more cluttered one, depending on how you look at it.  
“I used to be a junkie”  
“Now and then I just like to feel good, is there something wrong with that?” the words come out hesitant, like he already knows the answer, how cold they sound on sober ears. “Hey, you got another match?” I feel him pulling away, getting ready to leave, and regret baiting him.  
“That was my last one”  
“Alright, I guess” he’s trying to gauge whether I am angry with him for lying, and I see him trying to read me with his eyes. He’s good at it, but I am better at hiding. “Our eyes will adjust. Thank good for the moon, right?” he jokes, still testing the waters. I smile, and immediately see him relax.  
“Maybe it’s not the moon…i heard their shooting a movie down the street” I offer, getting another chuckle out of him.  
“Yeah, right” he's lauging. I shrug. He reaches out, takes my hand. Instinctively, I surround his with mine, rubbing the chilled skin.  
“Your hands are cold” it’s stating the obvious, but he’s looking at me so intensely. The smile is gone, but he’s not angry, just curious, brow wrinkled as he considers his chances.  
“Yours too. Big. Like my dad’s” I wrinkle my nose, not liking his analogy. Being compared to a prospective lover’s father, not so high on my to-do list. “Wanna dance?”  
“What?” I don’t get it. “With you?”  
“No” he answers, chuckling again. “With my father”  
“Oh. By the way, I’m Brian” I dodge the dancing question, heading to safer ground.  
“I’m Justin”  
“Nice to meet you Justin” And it is, especially when he beams at me again, lighting up the small apartment and making me wonder…If I didn’t close my eyes so often, would the world still look so dark?


End file.
